


Rainy Morning

by LadyAJ_13



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Ahem (offscreen 'more'), Fluff, Kissing, Lazy Mornings, M/M, Morning Cuddles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-22
Updated: 2020-03-22
Packaged: 2021-03-01 03:34:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23268541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyAJ_13/pseuds/LadyAJ_13
Summary: Morse wakes slowly. His awareness drifts, a slow, sluggish rise towards the day.-Basically just a sweet, syrupy morning in bed.
Relationships: Max DeBryn/Endeavour Morse
Comments: 10
Kudos: 42





	Rainy Morning

**Author's Note:**

> I had the first couple of sentences of this stuck in drafts for months, and today I brushed them off and added some more sentences. I hope it makes your day better, because we all need some fluff right now.

Morse wakes slowly. His awareness drifts, a slow, sluggish rise towards the day.

The bed is soft, with covers that beg to be burrowed down into and tucked around ears. They call to him, to give up on wakefulness and indulge longer, but in the background is the rhythmic patter of rain on glass - just enough of a disturbance to convince his eyes to open.

The room is warmly lit; weak daylight that drifts through the gaps in the curtains no match for the lamp glowing on the far bedside table. He trails his eyes down, to the familiar spectacles case and book at its base.

“Awake finally, are you?”

Not really. He shifts lightly, enough to look up rather than across. Max is still in his pyjamas and dressing gown, and the sight is so unusual in the morning that he can’t help a questioning hum.

“Not much of a day for the garden, as I was planning.” 

He smiles; Max is able to read him even now, when his brain is pleasantly jumbled and he knows he’s making little sense. There’s still the temptation to give up on the waking world entirely and sink back into sleep - but the waking world has Max in it. He unearths a hand, darting out from the safe warmth of the blankets.

“What?”

Another mumble, but Max steps closer, close enough for him to curl his fingers in the edge of that dressing gown and pull, lightly. “Come here,” he manages.

“I rather think I’m already here Morse.” Max’s eyes are twinkling; he knows exactly what he’s doing. “Now come on, I’ve got tea brewing downstairs.”

Morse shakes his head, turning and burying his face in the pillow. The one on this side smells of Max, and it makes him grip tighter. He pulls again, rather less delicately, and smiles as Max loses his footing, catching himself with a hand either side of Morse’s head. He peers up at his captive, drinking in the surprise.

“It’s like that, is it?”

“Mm hmm.”

“And I suppose I get no say in the matter? Despite it being nearly ten, and well past reasonable time for anyone to be out of bed?”

He could argue that Max has been out of bed, and he has never been that reasonable, but to articulate the thought seems far too much effort. Better, instead, to twist his lips and use his energy to transfer his grip to the belt of the dressing gown. He fumbles it open until Max stands straight and lets it fall to the floor. 

He grins as Max gives in and slips under the blankets. He isn’t cold, but he has lost the sleep-warmth of a night under covers, and Morse burrows in close to share his own, scooping up Max’s familiar frame in his arms and letting his head come to rest on his shoulder. Max smells like morning - the faint aroma of toast clings to his pyjamas - but underneath it’s all Max, and he breathes deeply.

“You’re affectionate this morning.” Max ruffles his hair, like you would a favoured pet, and he only just avoids pushing in to the touch. This is what he wanted; Max back, where he should be, close enough to hold. He feels his usual morning interest stirring at the closeness, but it can be ignored, put off, for more of this.

“Morse.”

He looks up; Max catches his chin with a finger and then his lips with his own; soft, and just a little wet. The angle is awkward, necks cricked, and he slides his way up until they’re on a level, deepening the kiss.

Perhaps the interest can’t be put off.

It may be a clever game Max is playing, because the last vestiges of sleep are certainly fleeing away now, drowned by the flick of Max’s tongue and the sharp inhale when they break apart. He stares for a second, and shifts himself until he can rest over Max, pinning him down.

The last thing he needs is for him to get ideas about leaving again, after all.

“We should get up-”

He cuts him off with a well-timed kiss. Max can talk about starting the day all he likes, but the hands that come to rest on his back, slipping down ever so lightly to fondle his arse - well, they tell a different story. One he’s happier to participate in. He trails from Max’s lips to land a brief, brushing kiss on Max’s cheekbone.

“Morse, really!”

He pulls back again, grinning at the look on Max’s face. He can never quite settle into it when Morse gets romantic, like it’s a waste of time, or a performance - like he’s not worthy of it. It fires Morse’s contrary nature, making him want to do it all the more. He punishes him with another feather-light kiss dropped on his nose, which makes Max go cross-eyed and Morse laugh out loud.

“You should eat something,” Max admonishes.

“Mmm,” murmurs Morse, leaving Max’s face to map out a path down his stomach. “Got a few ideas…”

“ _ Food, _ ” Max says in an amused tone; it makes Morse’s lips curl up in response. Max is almost impossible to embarrass, but it amuses them both to try. Normally Morse is the one who ends up red-eared and blush-cheeked, but today that all feels far away - well outside their little cocoon, and so hardly worth bothering with. 

“Later,” he mutters, continuing in his journey, but he’s not sure Max will have heard. It’s dark and close under the covers, and Max’s hands flutter in his hair in that way they do when they end up here. Even without the blankets muffling sound, Max is distracted, torn from the world of words, and just how Morse wanted him. 

There are layers of clothing in his way, but they’re easily dealt with, stripped and shoved unceremoniously out the side, and then there’s only one thing left to do.

“Oh - oh, Morse -”

\--

It is still raining when they resurface, but there is nothing to do and nowhere to go. Just hours of Sunday left and a world that says stay inside with loud, insistent raindrops. They could sit in the parlour and read, or he could settle at the kitchen table with his puzzles while Max potters, seed cakes and a casserole on low. Or they could stay, entangled and entwined, beneath sheets that glide across naked skin. 

Morse props himself up on an elbow. “That tea’ll be a good strong brew.”

“Mmm.”

“You know, I am rather hungry. I should have breakfast.”

“Mm hmm.”

“Or I could stay here a bit longer.”

The arm around his waist tightens, and he relaxes, sinking back down with his head to Max’s chest. Well. All right then.


End file.
